


Precious Things

by yoshizora



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 01:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17335793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshizora/pseuds/yoshizora
Summary: Mòrag and Brighid are keeping a secret from Aegaeon.





	Precious Things

**Author's Note:**

> if u can't spell aegaeon's name right just call him john

There are few things that Aegaeon is certain of when he awakens before his Driver. Of those few things, he has his name, his sword, and his conviction.

Not much else is there, really.

Mòrag is a patient woman. She tells him of Mor Ardain and his long history as one of the Empire’s prized Blades, Brighid there to corroborate her stories, and Aegaeon figures that this is a fine place to be, in the service of someone like her. There are apologies when she explains that there are some things she must withhold for now, but Aegaeon doesn’t mind. As long as there is something to fight for and someone to protect, he is content.

He says he does not mind, but Mòrag’s uneasiness creeps its way to his own ether as well.

The things that she can’t tell him…

Can’t be _that_ important, can they?

“When?” he solemnly asks.

Clearly troubled, Mòrag glances to Brighid. “Someday, Aegaeon. But not now.”

“You’ll understand why when we tell you everything.” Brighid hastily says, and he gets the feeling that she knows just as much as Mòrag does. So if they both agree that now isn’t the right time to tell him… whatever they’re not telling him, then it surely must be for a good reason.

Aegaeon doesn’t want to think too hard about it, not when there are so many other things that must be done in the present day, but it’s hard not to be bothered by a past he can’t recall.

 

* * *

 

His hand pauses over the doorknob. These doors in the inn aren’t very thick at all; he can hear Mòrag and Brighid through the wood, and Aegaeon cautiously leans forward to listen against his own better judgment.

“… finds out the truth,” one of them is saying. From the pitch of the voice, he can easily identify the speaker as Brighid. Footsteps, no doubt Mòrag’s boots, pace back and forth.

“It’s too much, Brighid. It’s _too much._ ”

“Do you think I not know that?”

“But if it’s for Aegaeon’s sake, then surely—“

“You feel the same way as I, Lady Mòrag! We don’t need to tell him!”

Aegaeon quietly backs away from the door. His head is pounding. What are they hiding? What are they hiding? Why can’t he know?

What did he do wrong?

 

* * *

 

The days pass in relative normalcy. Relatively, considering that they’re traveling with the Aegis herself on a quest to save their dying world from inevitable doom against another very angry Aegis and his ragtag band of equally angry misfits. Aegaeon doesn’t quite understand the Aegises’ dilemma with existential crises, but he knows that he's fighting for a greater good, so he goes along without question.

But he continues to ponder the things kept from him.

Brighid had shown him her journal, once, explaining how she recorded things from her past lives for her future selves to read. She would never truly remember them herself, but this is the next best thing. As an imperial treasure of Mor Ardain, she has the privilege of always knowing that her journal would be kept safe.

It doesn’t really occur to Aegaeon that perhaps he should start keeping a journal, too. If none of his previous incarnations never felt the need to, then why start now? But when he thinks of the secret… secrets, being withheld by his own Driver and his fellow Blade, he hesitates.

Not knowing isn’t the part that really bothers him. It’s that whatever it is, it clearly bothers Mòrag and Brighid.

 

* * *

 

“Perhaps I… can keep something else, to pass on to my future selves,” Aegaeon wonders out loud. “If not a journal.”

Mòrag sharply glances at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “It was just a feeling. As if there is… something…”

Mòrag and Brighid turn away to lean in and mutter to one another. Aegaeon simply stands there and waits for them, quietly sweating.

Finally, then turn back to him. Their group is stopping over in Mor Ardain for just a couple days. Now is as good a time as any. Mòrag wraps a reassuring arm around Brighid’s shoulders, both of them avoiding eye contact with Aegaeon in their clear discomfort.

“We’ll bring you to Hardhaigh Palace in the morning.”

Something that feels like excitement wells up in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

They leave the Aegis and her companions in the city, insisting that they be left alone to this matter— just the three of them, the Special Inquisitor and her Blades. Aegaeon dutifully trails behind Mòrag to her left, while Brighid takes her right side, too close to be considered professional. She mutters to Mòrag now and then, glancing to the side at Aegaeon when she thinks he isn’t looking.

The guards and soldiers they pass give Aegaeon curious looks, but he ignores them. The further in they go, the more his apprehension builds. What if there truly was a good reason for Mòrag and Brighid to keep him in the dark? What if he had committed some sort of atrocious crime when he was the Emperor’s Blade? What if?

Then, Mòrag pauses in front of a door at the end of a dimly lit hall. She pulls a key from her pocket and turns to Aegaeon.

“Are you ready?”

He nods.

“Are you _absolutely certain,_ ” Brighid says, and he can tell she really doesn’t want them to proceed.

“I’m sure.”

She sighs in defeat. Mòrag turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open.

They step inside.

Brighid brings her hands to her face.

Aegaeon gasps in awe.

The room is… small. No, it’s not small. It merely appears small and cramped, every inch of its walls lined with shelves crammed with dolls from floor to ceiling. So many dolls. Dolls of all shapes and sizes and colors, their glassy eyes all staring down at the three of them. There’s hardly any space to walk between the tables as well, also completely covered with dolls, each one carefully arranged together, tiers upon tiers of _dolls._

“This is all yours, Aegaeon,” Mòrag says, staring at the floor and gesturing forth.

“They’re all… mine…?” Aegaeon’s mouth hangs open in a large smile. He approaches the closest table and tenderly runs his fingers across one of the dolls’ hair.

“Indeed. This… is the culmination of years of collecting.”

Brighid still has her face covered with her hands.

“They’re exquisite,” Aegaeon breathlessly says. So Brighid has her writing passed down through the Empire, while he… he has all these dolls. Beautiful, lovely dolls. Already, he had forgotten that Mòrag and Brighid had intentionally kept this a secret from him. No longer does he care. His joy at this discovery is too great to be disturbed.

Oh, if only he could only go back in time and thank his past selves for accumulating such a wondrous collection!

“It’s _too many_ ,” Brighid mutters. Aegaeon doesn’t hear her.

“Hush. You gave him some of these dolls, remember?”

“Yes, but I always make a point of avoiding this room.”

Aegaeon slowly walks to the center of the room and sits down, crosslegged, gazing across at all those lifeless faces. Dozens— no, hundreds.

“Let’s just leave him here for a while, Lady Mòrag.”

Mòrag sighs, allowing Brighid to lead her back to the exit. “We’ll come back for you in the evening, Aegaeon.”

Aegaeon says nothing, only nods with that open-mouthed smile, still basking in the magnificence of his doll collection.


End file.
